by Notty Bumbo, 2015
What is not broken is not noticed,
Sits there awaiting use,
Attention that occurs without thought.
In the corner of the garage, the shed,
The faded red barn the plow once sheltered in,
All the things we miss through damage,
Thinking of their eventual resurrections.
Thinking we will do that this summer,
Teach the kids a few things
About tools, about utility,
About the futility of memory.
Bring out the screw box,
The old collection of parts
You've been saving since forever
For just the right day,
The right match with its long-imagined destiny.
You will show them the newly-shined wonder,
The elements of joy in things put right,
And they will inherit this same delight in regeneration,
These hopes to repair with love all the world,
And you will rest easy knowing
You have fulfilled your duty,
And in that act
Repaired your own broken things,
As you had long imagined you could,
You would bring back into use
Those portions of yourself
Once deemed lost, fractured, severed from the hand,
Your spirit now welded into one form,
Your barn once again a place where the farmer returns,
Content in the work of his day.